


The First Three Minutes

by anonymous_sibyl



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Character of Color, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-06
Updated: 2007-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_sibyl/pseuds/anonymous_sibyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There is a hypothesis that nearly everything we are made of was formed during the first three minutes of the universe's existence. We are different now, but at our beginnings we were the same. Why, then, do we fear each other?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Three Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the String Theory/Five Years Gone verse.
> 
> This work is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/). None of the media or characters written about in my fanfiction belong to me and I make no profit from these works. 

_We are all made of stars. Some among us, those who can do great and terrible things, can be thought of as containing more, enough bits of star to give life or take it. It's as good an explanation as any other. It may be the only one we ever have._

* * *

"Good morning, Dr. Suresh."

"Good morning." I don't know her name. I think of her in my mind as Assistant Number Five, but that is based upon her position behind the desk that once belonged to Maureen, my first assistant, and the only one I hired myself. Everyone since has more properly borne the title of Special Agent and reports to those who control Mr. Parkman, not to me.

At first I bridled against it, angry at the control exerted over me, a true _homo sapiens sapiens_, but they are all organized and efficient, and Number Three made wonderful strong tea. Five tries but she has yet to discover the correct brewing time and often gets tea leaves in my brew. There are days I'm tempted to read the leaves as the old women do. How farfetched is that sort of magic in the world in which we live?

"Doctor?" She presses a cup of tea into my hands and studies my face. "Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine." I expect she'll be gone within the week. Concern for anything other than my productivity is frowned upon. I make a mental note to purchase those vile tea bags for when I am too busy to brew a proper pot as I would at home and have no one to do it for me. "Is the lab ready?"

She answers in the affirmative and I am unsurprised. My rituals are important to me and this small exchange of words is one of the few moments of genuine contact I have. I am no longer fool enough to believe that I will ever meet a true friend, one who approaches me not thinking to gain favor from Mohinder Suresh, savior or destroyer of the human race.

I finish my tea in my office while reading over yesterday's results. No breakthroughs, no setbacks, simply a steady progression. I tidy things, rinsing my tea cup in the breakroom sink before donning my coat and entering the lab. It is as if I am a person of some importance, the way my name spreads among the lab assistants. There is one voice that catches my attention.

"Thomas. How are you feeling?"

"Well, thank you, Dr. Suresh. I'm glad to be back."

"Good, good."

My lab has an unusually high rate of illness. Any other lab would be shut down while potential health code violations were investigated, but we know we have excellent controls and safety measures in place. Illness is merely what we call it when one of us gets too close to asking questions that are frowned upon by the government.

I, of course, am exempt from those week long interrogations culminating in a visit to the Haitian man an his terrifying power. At least I think I am. I suppose I would have no way of truly knowing.

I wonder if he will be allowed the option to take the cure if we ever discover it. His mutation makes him valuable to those in power.

The Haitian has pinpoint accuracy but occasionally even he goes too deep and erases things he should not. The last time he was "ill" Thomas had to be re-taught how to use some of the simpler lab equipment. I often wonder if the information connected in the synapses of Thomas' brain to that equipment was something that could have helped us in our research. I like to think discoveries of importance would be reported to me, but I cannot be sure.

Rarely do I fear that my lab assistants will find the solution I cannot. They are brilliant, all, but working here has taken its toll on them. Perhaps my research would be better spent finding a way to prevent the long-term damage done by the Haitian's tampering.

The morning is uneventful, filled with the most basic of tests and trials. I pass as much work on to my assistants as I can, but still I must be everywhere supervising. It is almost enough to make me long for the time when I performed my basic experiments in my father's run-down apartment. I made more progress then, so it seemed.

Five reminds me to lunch, so I do, choosing to spend the time in my office instead of dining out. Unless I am summoned to the White House I rarely leave my offices during working hours. Five stays at her desk, most likely to watch me. I wonder about the reports she must turn in to her superiors, and how dull they must seem. Does she catalogue my choice of salad dressings, noting a preference for oil and vinegar, and does she note that I rarely eat at what passes for Indian restaurants in this area, choosing instead to cook for myself when I become nostalgic for the food of my childhood?

Consumed with the minutiae of my life, I nearly miss it. There, one line of data on the page, one line in tens of pages, different from what I have seen every other day. Not the cure, no, but one step on the path toward it. My afternoon takes a sense of urgency. I forego my lunch and return to the lab early. Thomas is there, and several other assistants. I set them to running the tests we need for confirmation while I inform the President of what may be happening.

By midnight we are certain. It's there. This can be done. I send everyone home instructing them to rest because tomorrow our work starts in earnest. Five is the last to go, smiling at me as she leaves, nodding to the pot of tea she has left on her desk. Familiar with my behaviors, she assumes I won't sleep tonight. There is too much to be done.

When the door to my office opens again I am not startled. I had wondered all along if this would happen, if it had happened before. Now, even if only for a few moments, it seems I know.

"Dr. Suresh."

I don't know his name. I never have. I fold my hands before me on my desk and wait. As he approaches the thought of Thomas enters my mind. "Don't go too deep," I instruct him.

* * *

"Good morning, Dr. Suresh."

"Good morning." I don't know her name. I think of her in my mind as Assistant Number Six, but that is based upon her position behind the desk that once belonged to Maureen, my first assistant, and the only one I hired myself. Everyone since has more properly borne the title of Special Agent and reports to those who control Mr. Parkman, not to me.

"Doctor?" Her voice refocuses my attention from my thoughts to the lab. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes." I'd brew a pot myself, but I've never been very good at that. "Thank you."


End file.
